"And you should sit down. Your hair's a mess."
She blinks and the challenge in her expression falters, replaced by confusion. "What?"
"Your hair." I gesture at it where it's hanging in wet tangles down her back. "It's tangled."
She reaches up and tries to run her fingers through, getting caught immediately before trying to work it free. She can't.
"I'll deal with it tomorrow."
"You'll be miserable." I’m miserable.
"I'll be fine."
"Isabella—"
"I said I'll be fine." She tugs harder at the knot and her eyes water before she drops her hand in defeat. "It's just hair."
She's too proud to ask for help. Always has been.
"Sit down."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to fix it."
She stares at me like I've just suggested something impossible. "You're going to fix my hair?"
"Unless you want to sleep with your head stuck to the pillow."
"I don't need?—"
"Sit. Down."
For a second, I think she's going to argue, going to tell me to go to hell, to throw her walls up and push me away like she's been doing for four years.
Then she sits on the edge of my bed with her hands in her lap and her back straight, her chin up even in surrender.
Stubborn even when she's giving in.
I move behind her and stand there for a moment, close enough to see the water droplets still clinging to the ends of her hair, the way it's already starting to dry in some places and curl slightly at the ends.
"I'm going to touch it," I say, making sure she knows the boundaries. "Just your hair. That okay?"
"Fine."
I start at the ends where the tangles are worst, separating the strands carefully and working them apart with my fingers—patient and methodical the way I approach everything. Her hair's thick and heavy, cold from the shower water, and I can feel the weight of it in my hands as I work.
So soft. So luscious.
I move slowly, one section at a time, finding the knots and easing them loose without pulling, without hurting her because that's the last thing I want to do.
My fingers get close to the back of her neck—so close I can feel the heat of her skin radiating through the small gap between us, close enough that if I moved one inch, I'd be touching her.
I don't move that inch though.
She sits perfectly still and doesn't speak, doesn't move, just lets me work while the silence between us grows heavy and charged with every breath too loud and every movement too careful.
My knuckles brush the top of her spine.
